What Makes A Man
by lord-harker
Summary: John Watson's never been at ease with some of the things he knows he's capable of. Surprisingly, moving in with an arrogant, self-assured, single-minded, hopelessly childish man called Sherlock might help him come to terms with his powers.
1. The Mesmer

**Disclaimer:** not mine (did have something wittier but it got deleted somehow)

**A/N:** I did have author's notes on here before but for some reason they got deleted so have another go. Just a quick note to say thanks to RedBrickandIvy who was my test-reader (would say beta except she wasn't really and hasn't seen the finished piece yet so yeah...) please leave a review if you can, really helpful to me and all. ;)

**What Makes A Man**

**Chapter One: The Mesmer**

John Watson was not ordinary; not by any means.

He had…an ability. A power, if you will. A gift, or indeed curse, which he'd received from his father, who had inherited it from John's grandmother.

The Mesmer, as they called it, allowed them to influence other people; a sort of cross between hypnotism and mind control. It's difficult to be specific as it differed from person to person, growing and shifting as they grew as people, working to match with who they became.

Grandmother Watson, a gentile elderly woman always used suggestions, '_would you mind this_' or '_could you do that_', perfectly innocuous but even as children, Harry and John had never been able to refuse one request she posed towards them.

Mr Watson was a stern but fair man. He believed in discipline but never used the Mesmer against his children. He believed that his children should obey him because they respected and understood the requests and never because they had to. A belief that stemmed from the one time he had unintentionally used it against John. The boy had been chasing Harriet cradling a worm which he was threatening to drop down her shirt when Mr Watson's strong voice bellowed out the single word "_Stop_!"

The poor eight year old had been frozen in his position for nearly four hours before his father found a way to rescind the order. John collapsed, having struggled throughout to move from his position, trying to shout and kick and scream but never moving an inch or making a sound. For three weeks after that his son was too afraid to even look him in the eye.

John had first used the Mesmer in secondary school aged twelve.

Some kids had tried to pick a fight with him, shoving him to the ground just outside the school gates. Far enough that the teacher's technically held no jurisdiction but close enough that there had been no way to avoid the inevitable beating. The taunts and the jeers they threw at him weren't the problem though, rolling off him like butter as he lay there easily shielding his stoic pride. No, it was the punches that followed with a good strong kick to the stomach that really pissed him off.

"Stop it." He muttered through gritted teeth as he clutched his abdomen, his young twelve year old mind causing him to fight the urge to curl into a ball. "Get away from me." They just laughed, kicking dirt in his face and continuing to smack their boots harshly against his back.

When he spoke again his voice was hoarse, cracking from a combination of fear and anger towards the ones who'd knocked him down. Oddly, it felt as though his throat was tightening as he spoke, drawing forth the extra layer he hadn't known he'd possessed.

"_Get Away From Me_."

Each of the boys jumped back immediately, jerking their limbs as though John had set fire to them and stood, gazing dumbfounded at each other before turning and running away as far and fast as they possibly could; as though the hounds of hell themselves were after them.

They never messed with him again.

For weeks afterwards his parents argued over whether or not to tell him, either ignoring or forgetting that it was only walls that separated them from their young children, both of whom were able to hear every word. In the end it was an angered and greatly impatient Grandmother Watson who explained it to him.

"You are a special young man, John, as was your father when _he_ was your age." She paused, waiting expectantly for some response but John merely stared as his hands clasped in his lap. Leaning back, she sighed. "There are a great many people out there who would give anything, or indeed do anything for your ability, John." She smiled at him, peering over her thin-rimmed glasses while he shifted uncomfortably.

"But I don't want it."

"Hamish was the same." Grandmother Watson nodded knowingly. "He wanted nothing to do with it and what did he get for his troubles? A simple slip of the tongue and now his own son's too afraid to even look him in the eye anymore. Don't think I haven't noticed young man." She added the end statement as John turned purposefully towards the window while a slight shiver ran through him.

Four years had passed and he still remembered exactly how it felt to not have his muscles react to his panicking and fear. How he'd spent hours internally screaming and shouting but never once being able to move or make a sound. Even now he still had the occasional nightmare that he was frozen in place, not capable of making a sound or moving and remaining that way forever. He'd always awake in a cold sweat and chest heaving often followed by a few sleepless nights.

His grandmother nodded in understanding. "That's how it works. The stronger the order, the stronger the mind behind it…" she tailed off. "But it's a part of you, John. And like it or not you'll have to find a way to live with it." Raising her drink to her lips, the elderly woman muttered. "Can't do any worse than your father."

They sat in silence for a few minutes before John was able to find his voice. "Are there like rules for it?" That was how it worked in comic books and on television right? There were rules of responsibility to be abided by, to separate the good guys and the bad guys. Which was why he was shocked when his grandmother scoffed.

"Rules!" Replacing her cup on the small table beside her, she sat back again looking thoughtful. "The thing with rules, John, is you will always find an exception to them. It could be today, it could be in five years or ten years, but it'll always make itself known, and what use are your rules then?"

John looked up from his clasped hands to take in his calm grandmother before him. "But don't I need to…" he paused, searching for the right term. "Do the right thing? Not use it against people?"

"Having the Mesmer will help to shape you as a person. How you come to use it is something you have to discover for yourself." She smiled sweetly at him, her wrinkled eyes creasing further in sympathy for his confusion. "For right or for wrong, no one knows what it's like and you'll know better than anyone how to make it work for you.

"Remember, you're a boy with an ability, not an ability with a boy."

And those words always stuck with him.

* * *

><p>Afghanistan. John Watson's tent.<p>

Yesterday a young man was dying beneath his hands. The multiple bullet wounds should have been instantly fatal but John wasn't willing to let him go without a fight.

For twenty minutes longer than anyone had expected the soldier had remained aware, his eyes glued to John's face that stood sentinel above him until the final moment in which his heart finally gave up and he passed on. Everyone had put it down as some random miracle that he had held on as long as he did but something about it had got John to thinking.

Almost continually, the doctor had muttered reassurances as he worked, mentally screaming at his patient to just hold on, just a little while longer, please. Even so, his voice never wavered although in all honesty he was paying himself little attention. That was probably why he hadn't noticed the Mesmer. I mean, that was the only way he could make sense of it, even though it made no sense.

John sat in quiet contemplation, fingers clasped beneath his chin almost in prayer. Maybe they were. He'd never given the man any orders; at no point had he said "stay alive" or anything of the sort, too busy rallying his fellow doctors to try and save the man.

Yet…

More and more over the last few weeks his patients had been commenting on how kind his eyes were or how soothing his voice was while they were under his care. The doctor had run through the figures a couple of times and had come to realise that of everybody here treating the wounded, those who came beneath his hands following an attack had a greater chance of surviving. They lasted longer than anyone else and most of them lived on to see another day.

Except there was nothing particularly special about him. Nothing about his methods was different to those of anyone else's. He did the same as anyone would in his position but every one of his patients seemed to hold on that little bit longer. The only difference, literally the _only_ thing that set him apart from the others was his ability; was the Mesmer.

The thought that he could control and guide the thoughts and actions of another human being was never a responsibility that had rested easily on John's shoulders and, as best he could he had tried to refrain from using it.

Only he'd failed…

Over the next few weeks John Watson kept half a mind on his voice and his words at all times. Sometimes, when he'd been awake for many hours and so many people had passed beneath his hands, he'd start issuing orders and feel his throat begin to tighten the same way it had so many years ago.

At this point he'd draw short. Instantly becoming silent and taking a not-very-calming breath before continuing, slower and calmer than before to ensure he didn't slip up and force someone to do something.

In this time he lost fourteen soldiers.

After the latest loss he sat in his tent for hours, hidden away from the others and allowing silent tears to fall, tracing invisible paths along his arms as he dug the palms of his hands into his eyes. He wasn't sure why he was doing that exactly, to try and slow them probably, stop them most likely, hell anything but they kept coming, there was no keeping them inside, they'd been building for too long.

Raising his head, John dragged his hands down his face and curled his fingers into fists as they fell to his lap.

It wasn't fair! He didn't _want_ to use the Mesmer on his patients, but if he _didn't,_ then more people would die; people who were relying on him to get them well again, so they could get back out there or get back home.

For possibly the millionth time since joining the army, John turned his grandmother's words over in his head.

_The_ _thing_ _with_ _rules,_ _John,_ _is_ _you_ _will_ _always_ _find_ _an_ _exception_ _to_ _them…_ …_Having the Mesmer will help to shape you as a person… …For_ _right_ _or_ _for_ _wrong,_ _no_ _one_ _knows_ _what_ _it's_ _like_ _and_ _you'll_ _know_ _better_ _than_ _anyone_ _how_ _to_ _make_ _it_ _work_ _for_ _you._

And as he questioned his own motivations, John felt he finally began to understand what she'd been talking about.

* * *

><p>Shot; invalided home; John Watson was returned to London a few months later. Moving into a tiny one bed apartment that he forever dreaded coming home to, spending entire days out on walks just to avoid looking at those damn walls.<p>

Every night, awaking from nightmares filled with shouting, explosions and gunfire; people, comrades and friends dying beside him, it was those four walls that greeted him. Those four walls, a damn crutch he needs for his limp and a calender pinned to the wall that indicated his next appointment with his therapist.

Of course there were other items, his laptop, a desk and whatnot but after the nightmares, after every single one those three things were the ones that always drew in his attention like a magnet. Reminding him everything he had lived through.

As is often the case with extraordinary people, he did his best to appear inconspicuous as he went about daily life, strove to lead as normal a life as possible. He even had a therapist even though he thought about three times as carefully through everything he said before saying a single word to her. Really, being 'normal' was really quite simple, not too difficult. All it really required was for him to maintain a decent level of self-control and restraint that his sister failed to possess.

Harriet, John's sister, had actually tried getting in touch once or twice since his return home, offered her help, even a spare bed to sleep in but John wanted nothing to do with her anymore.

Like the good doctor and their father, Harry also had the Mesmer but much like their father refrained from ever using it, growing up in this 'magical' world where apparently denying a truth would eventually make it real. Of course this wasn't true, and it resulted in her holding little to no control over it. What pitiful control she did have was slowly but surely stripped away by her steadily increased alcohol dependency. When it did work, it was against her wishes and intent, usually during times of heightened emotions and false words that she just couldn't take back no matter what she tried.

Like the day that Clara left.

The same day he landed back on British soil, the fair-haired Clara had near begged poor John to please, oh dear god please, come round to help her address Harry's continuing drinking problem. Most nights she was coming in as pissed as anything, screeching nonsense and crying once or twice. That or she'd wallow in her chair cradling some strong drink or other, moping and wailing in a fit of depression.

But when she returned the following night she was met with the concerned gaze of her beloved and the accusing gaze of her brother, both who calmly explained to her their concerns and their fears about the drink and what it was doing to her.

"Oh I see." There had been no raised voices, there had been no fingers pointed and nothing provocative said but Harry quickly became riled, her hazel eyes becoming fiery as she stepped forward glaring daggers at the pair of them. "I see what you're up to."

"Please, Harry." Clara's voice was pleading but Harry just waved it off, raising an accusing finger in the poor girl's face.

"It's a plot! A plan!"

John stepped forward, forcibly pushing her hand down. "Harriet-"

"Don't you 'Harriet' me John Watson! I know your game-I know your game!"

"Harry, he's only trying-"

Turning on Clara she roared. "_And don't think I don't know you're involved with this! Just get out! Pack your stuff and leave! Go on, Go! Just get out!_" John recognised the added layer of the Mesmer that laced her words as she burst out at her would-be fiancée.

"Harry! No!"

But the small silence that followed and the slight shift in Clara's eyes told him it was already too late. Clara left that day; the rest of her belongings followed her within a week. She never called; she didn't return.

Not long after, John called round to check on Harriet to find her thoroughly drunk in the front room glaring at her mobile phone where she'd left it on the small coffee table. Various bottles and cans were scattered around the place and when he asked how she was doing, Harry moved forward taking the phone in her shaking fingers before extending it out towards him.

"Take it." Her eyes were still distant and firmly focused on the table but the hand was merely inches from his chest. "Please."

"Are you sure?" He remembered how Harriet had described first seeing the present, how she'd squealed with delight and taken Clara in her arms before bundling her away to the bedroom and doing things that really no one ought to be allowed to send to their siblings in letters, no matter how delighted they were about it. Whatever she had said on _that_ day, Harry had always loved Clara.

"Please." The reach extended slightly and the phone was all but pressed against his chest and so, reluctantly he had taken it, absent-mindedly running his fingers over the engraving on its back.

"Stay in touch." She'd called as he left, but John didn't. There wasn't much he could say to make things better and he'd tried everything to get her to stop drinking so there was no point. What more was there to say?

It had taken him a while to figure out but on that day John had lost all sympathy for his sister and her predicament. It was her own fault, a problem which had been a long time coming and there was really no way he would put up with her childish ways while she tried to glue the pieces back together with alcohol.

So even though he kept the phone, not having one himself, he cut off all ties with her.

That was another thing that had helped; limited interaction with other people. It hadn't been a conscious decision to begin with, he just wasn't used to dealing with everyday civilians again after so long in a war zone. But after a few weeks he realised it had been a while since he'd seen someone who wasn't stood behind a counter selling him something or in a chair opposite asking him how he felt and truthfully he found himself unbothered by the prospect.

The only problem was with fewer people to talk to he had more time to himself, more time to think over what he'd learnt following his revelation over his grandmother's words in Afghanistan.

To make a long story short, John had…for lack of a better word, experimented. Deciding that if he wanted to…be at peace with the Mesmer it wasn't enough to keep it in check. No, if he didn't want to end up like his father, afraid to talk to his own friends and family, he needed to understand it's ways and limitations. So he experimented.

It hadn't been too extensive, wary as he was of his still somewhat shaky self-control but it was enough that now, as he walked through the crisp air of Russell Square Gardens, there were four things, he was certain of.

First - minds. The stronger the will, the more resistance there was. Even in the army where you're trained to obey without question, if someone wilful enough could feel him trying to use the Mesmer against them, they would resist his suggestion, even when they knew it was the right option to be taking.

Second - orders. He didn't need them. As long as he had his intention crystal clear and entirely focused in his mind it didn't particularly matter what he said. Although, if he did use an order the person was more likely to do as he'd instructed and quicker.

Third - headaches. Following years of lack of use, prolonged or repeated…exercise of the Mesmer caused head-splitting pain to sear through his mind. It became less so through practice but he'd yet to reach the point where he could function without consequence. So he had to be careful.

Fourth - eyes. More precisely, _his_ eyes. Just as if he gave a direct order, if he held a direct line of sight with the person he was talking to, if they were looking right into his eyes, they felt a greater compulsion to do as they were told and with less hesitation. It wasn't a necessity but it helped things along when someone was particularly stubborn.

Absorbed as he was in his thoughts he almost didn't hear the near unrecognisable Mike Stamford call his name from the bench beside the footpath.

No point beating about the bush, he was big, bigger than John remembered, which he did…eventually. The first person he'd spoken to in nearly a month and oddly enough it was refreshing and remarkably invigorating to realise that he wasn't _entirely_ invisible.

Alright, so he didn't believe that notion whole-heartedly but there had been more than one occasion when he'd wandered if people didn't notice him because they were busy or because he'd been transparent.

As such, when Mike offered coffee, his treat, and a chance to spend more than five minutes with another human being he found himself reluctant to pass the chance up.

It was nice to talk with someone, even if the dialogue was flat and boring. So what if it centred mainly around the old days and how now, Mike was old, fat and academically redundant and John…well John wasn't really…himself.

Somehow they got around to the subject of living in London and Mike mentioned getting help from Harry but John just scoffed at him. "That's not gonna happen."

"You couldn't just get a flatshare or something?"

He snorted again. "Who'd want me for a flatmate?" His brow furrowed as Mike began laughing light-heartedly. "What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

Still confused, John took a small breath. "Who was the first?"

Mike paused for a moment, probably deciding whether to tell him or not. Eventually his face relaxed into a smarmy smile and he tilted his head as he stood up, indicating one of the pathways out of the park.

"C'mon. I'll introduce you."


	2. A Study In Stupidity

**Disclaimer:** Totally not mine in any way, shape or form recognisable or strange or otherwise.

**A/N:** So, yeah... Three weeks, working pretty much non-stop and must say pleased, if somewhat tentative with the result. Again, RedBrickandIvy was my test reader of sorts but she's only actually seen about...I think less than a quarter of the final chapter so it's a surprise for pretty much everybody. I'm still figuring out some of the future chapters but think I've decided on how to cover the first series at least. Please review, it really helps.

**Chapter Two: A Study In Stupidity**

Twenty-eight hours.

Four more hours than a whole day.

That's how long it had been since he'd first met the impulsive, incredible, self-proclaimed consulting detective called Sherlock Holmes, and already he'd all but moved in with the man, attended a crime scene only to be abandoned at it and to top it off, on his way from said crime scene, he'd been hijacked by a man who was far too smartly-dressed and typically-British than really should be considered healthy.

More than once, John wondered if maybe, with a direct enough command and maybe a direct line of sight into the man's cold eyes, he could get this strange man to back off. Just order him to let the doctor go and never come after him again. But each time this thought cropped up, he would look the stranger up and down and decide against it, for the sake of his safety and sanity.

Well-groomed, authoritative and probably attached to that umbrella at the arm; I mean who had an umbrella like that these days? He stood ramrod straight, leaning only slightly on his umbrella, cool as you like. The man exuded control and pure dominance, clearly a man who wasn't easily swayed and John doubted he had ever even attempted to exercise his influence over someone with even half as strong a will as this man probably held.

So he stood there, not entirely sure where to look or what to do, waiting patiently for the ordeal to be over.

He'd already received two teasing yet somewhat impatient texts from Sherlock 'calling him to action' – really he was already beginning to regret giving that man his mobile number. He didn't even know that he was moving in yet and this man wouldn't even leave him alone and John couldn't help but think about how he'd never seen this coming yesterday morning.

His phone chirruped again and holding back a frustrated sigh he fished his mobile out of his pocket again.

_Could_ _be_ _dangerous._ _SH_

And those three simple words caught his attention more than anything he had read in a long while.

Within three minutes he had been dismissed by his captor, and 'Anthea', still clicking on her smart phone, called him over, offering a lift back to Baker Street. With quiet anger at his damn leg as he hobbled to the car, John considered how quickly things had changed in the last twenty-four hours and requested a quick stop off.

His tiny little box flat, with the four walls, the dreaded calendar and his crutch in hand, John ignored them, barely registering their existence as he crossed directly to his desk, opening the top drawer and removing the gun he still kept in there.

There were no threats in London, he had had no reason to keep this weapon, especially not when trying to adjust to civilian life, but he couldn't just throw it out, he _needed_ it. He needed it as a reminder of what he'd been through; that everything he'd been through had really happened. It was a tie to The Life Before and, he was ashamed to admit to himself as he tucked it into the back of his trousers, it felt right to be able to wield it again.

Arriving at Baker Street he found Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa, calm and content and completely at ease. After a few moments of impatient waiting on John's part, Sherlock finally revealed the potentially dangerous action was to send a text.

He had crossed more than half of London to be asked…to send…a text…

Thinking better than contesting it further than a single protestation, John resolves himself to be a good little soldier – for now – and crosses the room to Sherlock's desk, off-handedly mentioning his meeting with the stranger who had referred to himself as Sherlock's arch-enemy.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, waived the concern and pressed the point of getting the text sent, and as he found the small post-it with the number John glanced at his watch with a wistful sigh.

Twenty-nine hours.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock!"<p>

The bastard had gone off. On his own. Again!

"Sherlock!"

Literally just walked off, left in the middle of a fake drugs bust, got into a taxi and driven away.

"Sherlock!"

John probably wouldn't even be here if that page hadn't refreshed at the point it had. It had been about twenty minutes since he'd last seen his flatmate. There was no point denying it any further, he _was_ taking the room upstairs, even if only to avoid Sherlock probably following him everywhere if he said no.

"Sherlock!"

_Answer_ _me_ _you_ _bastard!_

Bursting through the double doors at the end of the corridor he'd been searching, a shout escaped his lips while he frantically searched around the room he had just entered.

But there was nothing…

There was no one there…

But that was impossible! He had to be _somewhere_!

Movement outside the window opposite caught his eye, drawing his gaze across to the other building.

The other building! The _other_ bloody building! Of course, Sherlock _had_ to be in the other building didn't he? Being there in time to save the secret-keeping arse would just be _too_ easy wouldn't it?

The detective wasn't alone though, an elderly man whom he didn't recognise stood opposite him facing the window to which Sherlock had his back. John may not be some super-intelligent high-cheek-boned, consulting detective who went swanning off at the drop of a hat for no good reason but felt he knew enough to guess that _that _man there was the murderer they were looking for. That was the man who had taken the lives of four strangers, for whatever unfathomable reason and as John saw the small white speck clutched between Sherlock's fingers, it was clear the cabbie was planning to take a fifth and final victim before allowing himself to get caught.

Panicking, John stepped closer to window trying desperately to think of what on earth he could do. There had to be something; that pill was drawing closer and closer to his friend's lips and once it passed them it would only be a matter of time before the man would end up dead. Even if he ran John might only just get there in time to hold Sherlock's writhing form as the light finally slipped from his eyes, so whatever he was planning to do, whatever plan he was going to come up with had to be both brilliant and very, very quick.

The pill was practically in Sherlock's mouth and in that instant, without thinking about it, barely stopping to consider his gun or the consequences or even the possibility that it might not work, John felt his throat tighten as he called out shouting as loud as he possibly could, praying the idiot would hear him, praying it _would_ work.

"_SHERLOCK_! _DON'T_!"

* * *

><p>The small innocuous pill was almost at his lips when Sherlock heard a cry. It was distant, the words indistinct, distorted most likely by walls or windows or something, but the tone was unmistakable.<p>

Panic; fear.

Terror.

Someone was afraid. Someone familiar; he knew that voice, not well enough to recognise it instantly but enough to cause him to pause. Not Lestrade, certainly not Donovan or Anderson nor any of the other officers he regularly interacted with. No it was far too panicked, too fearful for any of _them_. He doubted it was possible for any of them to feel anything other than pure anger when something involved him. So who could…?

…John?

It seemed improbable, after all the two of them barely knew each other, they'd only met the previous afternoon and there was no sense in the voice belonging to him. Still, something about that cry and the name John Watson made sense; they connected within his mind and told him that the former army doctor was indeed nearby and distraught.

But how had he found where Sherlock and his would be kidnapper wer-?

Oh…OH!

His hand still hovering near his mouth, Sherlock gave a slight smirk, not seeing his own eyes flash as he realised. His eyes flicked to the pocket that was bulging slightly from where Jennifer Wilson's startlingly bright pink phone still sat. Clearly, he'd made the right choice in a flatmate.

Raising his eyes again he saw the cab driver's smile was falling. His cold, deadened eyes were hardening while he watched, expectantly, clearly desperate to see Sherlock finally consume his pill, to see the detective writhe on the floor with the pain the poison in his hand would cause him. All the while this unforgiving man would stand over him, eyes aglow and thoughts thinking upon the extra money his children would receive for the death of the great Sherlock Holmes.

"No."

There was a pause. "Pardon?"

Reaching out his arm he held the small white casing of poison before the cabbie's face. "I said, no." Ensuring those cold eyes were focused on the tips of his fingers, Sherlock loosened his hold on it, allowing it to fall to the floor with a tiny muted clatter. It rolled slightly before slowly coming to a stop nearly halfway between the both of them.

Sherlock's face was stoic as he watched his adversary's eyes follow the small speck on the floor, carefully awaiting his reaction and what it might indicate. The cabbie raised his eyes that looked somewhat tired, almost bored as he sighed.

"It's a shame. I was hoping it wouldn't come to this." He reached into his pocket, every motion slow and thoughtful as he slowly drew out a simple kitchen knife. "It's a bit messier then my usual method," he twisted it slightly allowing the nasty yellow tungsten lights to flash off it once or twice but held it close to his chest, "but it'll do the job just as well." He had no intention of using it just yet; no this was more like a dog baring its teeth as a warning if you aggravated it. "Pick up your pill, Mr Holmes."

Within Sherlock's mind he was doing calculations; possibility of survival if his current refusal was upheld, slim; possibility of survival if he tried to overwhelm the man, still somewhat slim; possibility of survival if he does as he's told, none. His brow furrowed in confusion.

Not two minutes ago he had been convinced, absolutely certain, that this pill was the safe one. That if he consumed it he would live, the cabbie would take his and die and it would be just another triumph of a case but something had changed. Something was different within his own head because he found that no matter how he was trying to reason it within his own mind, there was no way he could convince himself to pick it up. It was almost like a small voice in the back of his mind, telling him, ordering him to _not_ pick up and take that pill, under _any_ circumstances. The only explanation he could think of was that his mind had figured out something which he himself had yet to catch up on.

Maybe it was a trick; maybe they were _both_ poison and the cabbie would simply appear to take his while Sherlock effectively committed suicide; or maybe, only just maybe, he had been wrong and selected the wrong pill. Either way it didn't matter, as he knew there was no way he could follow the order.

"Come along, Mr Holmes." The man tilted the knife another couple of times allowing it to glint menacingly before shifting his hold on it slightly so that he might jab it forward at a moment's notice. "Time to take your-."

A bang, smash and cry cut him short as a bullet tore through his shoulder, causing the hand that held the knife to slacken and the blade fell from his grip, while he fell back and hitting the floor and moaning in agony.

Swiftly kicking the pill and the knife aside, Sherlock swung round, his coat floating around him as he did so, and he rushed to the window peering through the darkness beyond the glare from the lights and into the bright room directly opposite – only to find it empty.

* * *

><p>There were a lot of sirens and a great many officials wandering around; people, paramedics, police, crowd control, all rushing around and about while John Watson waited patiently at the edge of the police cordon carefully watching while keeping more than half a mind on his own current state.<p>

What the hell had he been thinking?

He'd _used_ the Mesmer on Sherlock. _Sherlock!_ Sherlock Holmes; obstinate, single-minded, stubborn ARSE! His flatmate who possibly possessed the strongest will John had ever been stupid enough to even try and influence in his life and he knew, he just _knew_ the aftermath was going to be hell.

Already he could feel a sharp headache cresting from the base of his skull and he knew that within the hour it would fully blossom into a debilitating mind-freezing pain that would just plain stop him in his tracks. For now though, it was little more than a distraction; a sharp painful, near-blinding distraction, true, but it wasn't enough to stop him keeping a close eye on Sherlock just yet.

Perched in the back of an ambulance, the young man was complaining about his bright orange shock blanket continually shrugging it off only to have it replaced upon his shoulders seconds later. It was no use trying to explain to him about procedure and how things were usually handled it would seem, a couple paramedics having attempted only to be shouted at by him, but it was clear, even from John's perspective, Sherlock was steadily getting more and more agitated.

Another wave of dizziness, a sort of a slight light-headedness, washed over John and he closed his eyes, near willing himself not to sway on the spot. He almost wished he still had his cane to lean on. A constant reminder of his stupid psychosomatic leg injury it may be but there was no contesting its ability to prop him up when his stance felt shaky.

Opening his eyes again, he almost instantly found Sherlock's gaze watching him carefully, a look of puzzlement gracing his features, clearly not listening as Lestrade stood next to him talking about something. Unconsciously John's fingers reached up to straighten his jacket, suddenly very self-conscious under that gaze and trying not to look like he felt about ready to fall over.

Carefully, he shifted his feet in an attempt to strengthen his stance, firmly planting them around shoulders-width apart hoping to hide any telling signs of shaking. Sherlock was still watching him with those cold, sharp, questioning eyes and he was desperate not to show any weakness, not to give any hint as to what he had done. Except, he reminded himself, even if Sherlock did see the shaking he'd never be able to figure out the why.

Not even the great Sherlock Holmes could figure out just what John was capable of; hell not even John was quite sure of it sometimes.

Almost too quickly Sherlock was heading his way, having somehow shaken off Lestrade. It was probably something he had a lot of practice in if how they'd got to this point was anything to go by. All too soon Sherlock was stood before him, a smirk pulling at his lips as he looked John over as though he hadn't quite seen him properly before.

"Sergeant Donovan was telling me about the…" he swallowed as his mind fogged slightly with another wave of dizziness. "Two pills. Very…unpleasant."

"Hm." Sherlock continued to glare at him, a knowing glint shining in his eyes.

"What?"

"You know," he began, not even managing subtlety as he continued his rather obvious assessment of the doctor stood before him, "I could have sworn I heard you."

"Pardon?"

"Right in the heat of it, I heard someone call out." He shifted, moving his hands into his coat pockets before looking back up at John's face with curiosity. "It sounded like you."

John took a breath. "Is that a good thing?"

Sherlock didn't answer, his curiosity shifting into confusion and…was that a flash of concern? "Are you alright?"

It was unfitting and momentarily sobering to hear that question come from the 'highly functioning sociopath' and John paused. He turned to see if anyone else was witnessing this because if it was just him then _surely_ he was hallucinating it. Surely it was just the delirium he could feel creeping round the edges of his mind confusing him to the point where he was unaware of pretty much everything and feebly attempting to fill in the blanks. But no, turning back that same concerned face was carefully watching him, looking for some clue or indication of something going wrong and bugger if John was going to give it to him. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Almost instantly the concern disappeared, Sherlock's face falling into the more recognisable look of mild curiosity. "You did just kill a man."

'_Damn._' John scrunched up his eyes reaching a hand up to rub at them momentarily before lowering it. The sudden ninety-degree angle change in conversation had thrown him and his head was flaring with pain again.

"John?"

Looking up, John realised he hadn't responded, not even to deny it and as another wave of dizziness rolled round his head he decided there was little point in denying it directly anymore. Any lies he constructed now would never hold under continued scrutiny.

"Wasn't a very friendly man."

"No…No, he wasn't was he. Are you sure you're alright?" Another wince from the doctor drew out the concern but John just waved a hand at him.

"Fine! Please stop _asking_!"

Sherlock's face became neutral at the harshness of John's bark, a smooth marble mask covering all emotions and shielding him from a situation he was not in the habit of finding himself in. John truly did look terrible, really quite pale and seemingly swaying where he stood. How much of this John was aware of was unclear but Sherlock thought it might be best not to push the point further. Even so, given his current state that decision might well be taken from their hands.

"Do you want to go home?"

Instantly, John's mind flew to that little box room and the thought nearly knocked him backwards, screwing his eyes shut again as he stepped back to prevent himself from falling over. Only his leg faltered and he began to fall. For the second time, he found himself regretting his willingness to give up his blasted cane, bracing himself for the sudden contact with the floor. It never came, a hand having grabbed at his elbow and straining to hold him up.

Looking up into the stern face of Sherlock Holmes, it took John a few moments to realise _his_ was the arm that was shaking with the effort beneath his elbow.

There was a firm hand on his other arm and John felt himself being half-lifted until his feet were steady against the floor and within seconds he was stood again, although somewhat shakily. While Sherlock removed one hand, the other remained; clearly worried that John might fall again. "I knew it. You're a terrible liar. Here."

Sherlock used his free hand to tightly hold John's chin, tilting his head this way and that while the doctor struggled to hold in the grunts and squeaks of pain that threatened to jump out with each movement.

"Did you hit your head or something?" The headache flared as he moved with the surprisingly tight grip and Sherlock was looking into his eyes, before assessing the rest of him. "It looks like you might have concussion."

John didn't hear the comment, his eyes having noticed the strikingly familiar figure he could see over Sherlock's shoulder. All his muscles tensed at the reminder of their encounter earlier that evening.

"Sh-Sherlock."

Momentary confusion crossed Sherlock's face at the look in John's eyes but he soon turned, tensing at the potential threat. Almost as quickly as the tension appeared it was gone, his shoulders sagging save for the arm supporting the doctor's elbow which tensed slightly as Sherlock shifted. "What do _you_ want?"

Stood around five meters away, the too-British man was casually leaning against his umbrella with…not a smile as such, more a look such as one might wear when catching a couple of children in the middle of a marvellous, mischievous game. "Having trouble, are we?"

"Go away." Sherlock turned back to John, making a bit of a show of attempting to ignore the intruder but John didn't believe it as those grey eyes continually kept flicking to peek over his shoulder.

Clearly unimpressed by the lack of interest in his presence, the man's non-smile devolved into a disapproving scowl. "I'm on your side, Sherlock. I'm simply worried for your welfare, as well you know."

The detective's brow furrowed as he turned, all attempts of holding the higher ground abandoned. "Don't you have a war to start, or to fend off or something?"

"I'm just looking out for you. Isn't that what brothers do?"

The grip on the doctor's elbow tightened some more and John breathed in harshly through gritted teeth sending another wave of dizziness over his fogged head. "It's not what _we_ do."

"W-wait!" John growled. His brain was having trouble keeping up with the conversation, his head beginning to feel like it was splitting in two and their exchanges were happening really rather quickly but his mind was still caught on a point the two had pretty much passed straight over. "You're bro-brothers?"

Sherlock turned to him, the look on his face close to unbridled anger, although hopefully it wasn't directed at John. "I'll explain later."

There was a sigh followed by an exasperated call of the detective's name and Sherlock rolled his eyes before returning his attention to the man who, apparently, was his brother. He still hadn't moved, seemingly comfortable to remain where he stood should Sherlock change his mind and decide to explain everything to John right this minute.

"I don't have time to deal with you right now, Mycroft."

"Hmm." The older Holmes glanced over Sherlock's shoulder to regard John Watson's current state. The doctor lowered his gaze which Sherlock's brother had momentarily caught, not wanting to see _another_ man dissect him piece by piece. Chances were he'd be much like his younger brother, able to deduce a great deal but given his lack of knowledge about the current situation, still not able to gain the whole picture. Yet it seemed the prospect of being in the dark didn't trouble him as much as it might his brother. "A spot of trouble with the good doctor, is it?"

"Shut up!"

"Oh, let's not fight, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned on him, coat billowing as the air caught it before fluttering back down to normal. "Why do you always have to poke your nose where it isn't needed?"

"Sherlock-"

"Even when we were children. Always playing the favourite."

"Sherlock-"

"Whatever 'job' it is you have to offer, I'm not interested. So you can-."

"SHERLOCK!"

A passing officer stopped in his tracks, almost transfixed by the scene and awkward nature that Mycroft had caused with his booming outburst. With a quick angered glance from said Holmes brother, he was on his way again, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. Mycroft straightened up, drawing himself as tall as he possibly could before talking.

"What I've been trying to tell you, if you would have the decency to listen, is your new flatmate appears to have a rather severe nosebleed."

"What?" Sherlock whipped round and his eyes widened as he looked at his flatmate's face. "John?"

Head throbbing from the rising tension and equally shocked at the comment from Mycroft, John raised a hand to his nose, wiping just above his mouth and when he pulled it away he found the hand was shaking, and covered in blood. His blood.

"Oh…"

Definitely a nosebleed. Definitely not good. Definitely not normal either, not even by John's unusual standards. Worthy of panic? More than likely, his body certainly seemed to think so as his pulse began to skyrocket while his hands began shaking more. The continuous waves of dizziness and his headaches, combined with the shock of seeing his blood on his own fingers was becoming too much and with a shuddery gasp, his eyes rolled back in his head.

John was out before he hit the floor.

* * *

><p>Headache.<p>

Still there.

Bollocks.

Not too painful though, more like a mild throb. A nuisance definitely, not head-splitting anymore though.

Shifting in an attempt to assess his surroundings, John's fingers instantly caught on something soft. With his last few memories remaining blurry at best, he panicked, letting out a choked cry and kicking out his legs as he awoke with a start.

A muted thud came from nearby and he managed to tear his eyes open to see the somewhat familiar interior of 221B Baker Street, shrouded in darkness. At least it was mostly in darkness, light poured in through the windows from outside lighting up small patches of the carpeted floor a muted yellow. Then there was a single beam of bright white light coming in from the kitchen which was soon blocked by a dark silhouette.

"John?"

It took a few moments for it to process properly but he knew whose that voice was, who it belonged to. That…was…Sherlock…? Yeah, Sherlock. Wait?

"Sherlo-" he broke off, his voice cracking due to an abnormally dry throat and he shifted, trying to raise a hand to soothe it. The shadow disappeared momentarily and he screwed his eyes shut against the light as it reappeared. It really _was_ quite bright.

It took him around a minute of slow, pained thinking to realise that his arm, which he'd worked free of whatever the hell that had been holding him down, was bare. It took another minute or two to realise this meant that both his jacket _and_ his jumper had been removed. So essentially he was laid out on what he could only presume was the sofa in 221B having been…undressed somewhat.

"Sher-" again he broke of into a minor coughing fit, each cough pulling at his chest harshly until there was another flash of shadow that seemed to flit about but morphed into the lanky figure of Sherlock once the man had moved close enough to be made out properly in the lack of light.

"Here." A cool glass was pushed into his freed hand and clasping it tightly, John brought it to his lips.

Unable to do more than pour a few dribbles into his mouth from his still lying position, he lowered the glass, half squinting as he looked down at himself to see he was covered in a thick plaid blanket. It was kind of scratchy and carefully laid over him, covering him up. It was twisted around him, having got caught up as he'd shifted restlessly in his sleep no doubt.

"How…?" he looked up and saw Sherlock was barely two meters away, perched back on his heels peering curiously at John. "What?"

"That's what I was going to say." It was almost like he was trying to figure something out and trying to see something beneath the plain obviousness that was John Watson. "Do you remember passing out?"

Casting his mind back John vaguely remembered losing his battle to stay conscious just after…

"He's your _brother_." A small smirk, not that different from the one he'd seen what truthfully only felt like twenty minutes ago, tugged at the corners of Sherlock's mouth but the smile didn't grow much further beyond that. "I was kidnapped…by _your_ brother."

Sherlock tilted his head slightly. "He _does_ have a flair for the dramatic."

John chuckled, raising his free hand to cradle his forehead recalling how, Mycroft was it, had said the same thing about Sherlock.

"What?"

"Nothing." His head throbbed and he held back a groan, instead gritting his teeth and scrunching his eyes shut. "What-…How long have I…?" He petered off, his throat still quite sore but, as he'd suspected, Sherlock already had an inkling what he was trying to ask.

"Just over twenty-one hours."

"What? Twenty-wa-" he flinched at the sudden loudness of his own voice cut through his head like a dull knife. "But…how did we even get back here?" It would surely have been possible for Sherlock to drag him back to Baker Street, not to mention the difficulties of hailing a cab when hauling an unconscious person around.

"Mycroft." Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and walked further into the room, allowing John some more personal space which he found himself thankful for. "Annoying older brother he may be but he had transportation and one of those continuously niggling needs to be of some use to me. Often a nuisance, occasionally practical."

"His car?"

"I'd hardly call it a car. More of a…" he breathed in harshly through his nose as he laced his fingers together. "Statement."

John chuckled but the smile fell quickly as he noticed the detective watching him. Not as before, with concern or fear or even curiosity but rather with the same piercing gaze he'd directed at that poor Jennifer Wilson. Almost as if he was trying to dissect John into his seminal parts again to find something he'd missed.

"What happened, John?"

Of course. It was inevitable. "I don't know wha-."

"There's something about you, John." The detective cut across him before he could complete his denial. Not angry, his voice clear and steady as he made his way over to the window. "I don't know what it is, but there's something and you should know that lying will only serve to be a pointless waste of _both_ our times." He unlatched his fingers and absent-mindedly traced his fingers through the condensation that had accumulated on the glass, allowing the cold to numb his fingers slightly. "Tell me what happened, John."

"No." John cradled his sore forehead and didn't see Sherlock turn to argue his point again but could feel it was coming and decided to cut it off before it was voiced. "I can't Sherlock. Not today."

Sherlock blinked at him. "Why not?"

"Maybe some day." This was the most severe reaction he'd had to using the Mesmer, headaches were common but nosebleeds and passing out were not something he was used to in these situations. John just needed some time to figure out what this meant, not to mention how he might explain it to Sherlock. His throat still felt terribly sore and he coughed quite harshly, but after he was finished he shifted into a more comfortable position on the sofa before taking a breath and calmly continuing. "Just not today. Not now."

"Some day…" Sherlock said the answer quietly, clearly turning it over in his mind before returning his gaze to the window with a firm nod. "I can live with 'some day'. For now at least."

John sighed. He knew that he wouldn't be able to keep it from Sherlock forever, there was likely going to be _no_ secrets from the world's nosiest flatmate, but right now his head still ached like hell and he found himself settling back into the cushion Sherlock must have laid beneath him before lying him down.

"Hungry?"

"Maybe." Sherlock had turned again, a small smirk on his face, clearly thinking of something super smart and amazingly clever which he wanted to show off with and, thinking how he was likely to regret this within the next hour, John decided to take the bait. "Got something in mind?"

Sherlock's smirk grew, one eyebrow rising until he looked adequately smug. "I know a good Chinese place."

John huffed a laugh. "Oh yeah?"

"Of course. You can tell a good quality Chinese restaurant from the bottom third of the door handle." Unable to believe what he was hearing, John started sniggering uncontrollably and Sherlock's brow furrowed in minor confusion. "What?"

"Nothing, Sherlock. Absolutely nothing."


	3. The Mind Blanker

**Disclaimer:** I wish it were mine but no, hardly imaginative enough to have made the original stories or the show so yeah. Not mine.

**A/N:** So yeah this has been a while but I've been figuring it out for one and finding the time to write isn't as easy as one might think. Again thanks go to my test-reader RedBrickandIvy who again hasn't seen the finished product yet (I like to keep some things surprises). I'll be honest I'm a bit worried I've gone iffy with this one so please leave a review if you can. Always helps.

**Additional A/N:** have now corrected repeated phrases, incorrect grammar and occasional spelling mistake. Sorry.

**Chapter Three: The Mind Blanker**

Sherlock was impossible, as it turned out. He barely ate, rarely slept and, when he thought John couldn't see, he would spend long periods of time glaring at his flatmate.

John had caught him a couple of times to begin with but after a while gave up seeing as it appeared that Sherlock couldn't be shamed by this action. Instead, he did his best to ignore the feeling of Sherlock's intense staring, usually grabbing his coat and heading out for a walk should it be too much. Often, by the time he came back, the young man's attention would have been captivated by something else and drawn him into one of his intense bouts of concentration which, although rarely any better given his extreme experiments and often explosive nature, was still somewhat a better alternative to being under scrutiny.

The living room of 221B was often a mess, Sherlock had a nasty habit of putting things down any old place and soon every surface was covered in random pieces of equipment, newspapers, bottles, case files and all sorts of strange and 'interesting' paraphernalia. Still there was clearly some system to it as there was only anger over something being impossible to find should John or Mrs. Hudson take it upon themselves to tidy up a bit and move things around. The doctor had decided to give up trying to keep it clean, settling instead for doing his best to make sure he avoided all mess and any resultant arguments it brought up.

To do that he needed to get out of there, and to get out of there for any length of time he needed a job. Well that, and to pay his half of the rent.

Unfortunately, it would seem that Sherlock didn't approve of this notion deeming it stupid and pointless and following an infuriating row in which the detective was his usual stubborn and single-minded self, John decided to just leave it realising there was no point in keeping it up.

Besides, he'd most likely end up unintentionally using the Mesmer again. Although he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been curious about the fact that his yelled instruction had worked. Surely Sherlock was too…Sherlock to be told what to do, even by someone who had a supernatural ability to get people to do as he orders.

There were one or two times he was tempted to try and get Sherlock to do normal simple things like sleeping or eating or the like just to see what would happen, but John knew it would never work a second time and passing out again due to Sherlock's stupid bloody single-mindedness was not a notion that particularly appealed.

So he left it. He tolerated the mess and the confusion and the social awkwardness and the early morning stints on the violin and the potential threat of Sherlock's body giving out at any given moment because it was interesting and intriguing and so much better than living in that box flat on his own with his nightmares.

And John refused to feel guilty over that.

* * *

><p>Her name was Sarah.<p>

Sarah Sawyer.

Long mousey-brown hair that hung simply in a ponytail and he'd barely known her a day. A small, pert mouth that was always quirked up in a half-smile as though there was some joke she could see going on behind you but wasn't sharing because where would be the point in that?

She was bright, bubbly and beautiful, always had something to say and never needed a reason to smile. The woman was so delightfully, refreshingly normal but bristling with fight and bravado and just truly brilliant in a way John couldn't recall having seen in anyone since before Afghanistan.

Just the thought of her tugged at his lips in a way he'd long ago given up on. After all people often weren't worth the effort but Sarah definitely was. She was wonderful and he'd been thrilled when she'd agreed to go on a date with him.

But not now.

Now she stood, cold, sodden, shaking and leaning heavily against Sherlock who had released her from the ropes that bound her to her chair. There was no smile this time, no giggles, no mirth or even the slightest indicator of anything other than abject horror. She was crying, a piercing wail that echoed harshly off the curved walls around them, as her brain was informing her of how close her encounter had been. Tears were streaming down her face and cut straight into John's soul as he glanced up at her from his own viewpoint on his side in the dirt.

Gazing at her it hit him just how close they'd both come to being killed in the last five minutes. Because of Chinese assassins and their stubborn inability to see the truth coupled with a series of terrible coincidences; because of Sherlock and his ridiculously mad capers.

Because of John.

"It's alright." He wheezed, making a decision as he spoke. "Our second date won't be like this."

Not by a long shot, he promised silently.

* * *

><p>They didn't speak for a while after what John had unwittingly begun referring to as 'the incident'. It was a mutual, unspoken agreement and was going to remain so no matter how many longing glances John caught Sherlock throwing in his direction. Poor Sarah had even taken a few days off while John continued returning to the clinic; he still had money to earn after all.<p>

Sherlock still didn't approve and now seemed solely intent on making John's existence little better than a living nightmare. Late night violin sessions or experiments continued, increased in fact, becoming more and more frequent and more ludicrous as time passed on involving near anything the man had to hand including (although certainly not limited to) the microwave, the blender, the fish-slice and the tin opener.

It would appear that without a case to distract him he was quickly becoming restless and bored, and increasingly dangerous to himself. Other people at least had the sense to stand back. It was coming home one day to a smog-filled flat that stank of smoky barbeque and disinfectant that caused John to wonder for perhaps the twentieth time since he'd moved in, whether it was too late to consider leaving. But he knew that even given the chance he wouldn't leave. Not a chance.

They'd only had two…adventures together, although the term adventures made the pair of them sound like seven year olds. Still that's what they were and as many times as the doctor questioned his sanity he knew it would be in greater jeopardy were he ever to leave Baker Street. Returning to the lonely life he'd had before would be akin to self-torture and he would never wish that life upon anyone, particularly not himself.

Call life with Sherlock Holmes whatever you want: call it madness, call it dangerous, call it torture, terrifying, childish, hazardous; you could call it desperation or even a cry for help if you wanted but there were two things you could never call it. Predictable or dull.

It was four days after 'the incident' when John's phone blipped with his familiar text alert and removing the phone from his pocket he saw who it was from.

_Sorry! Been a bit of a mess. Hope I haven't put you off._  
><em>Fancy a drink later?<em>

Sarah…

Shit…

He'd actually hoped to have a bit longer.

* * *

><p>The drink became a meal planned for seven o clock the following evening at a small restaurant not too far from Sarah's flat.<p>

It was a delightful little bistro with a charming, warm atmosphere but little to quell the fear that twitched nervously in his stomach. John arrived first, having placed reservations and carefully planned how the night was to go, he was not looking forward to it one bit. Even so he wasn't going to change his mind, all he could do was wait and hope it worked.

Hopefully it would, he'd never attempted anything like this before. Still, he reminded himself how, so long as he knew what he wanted and kept his intention clear and strong in his mind, it was unlikely that even Sherlock would be able to stand up under the Mesmer.

Or at least that's what he told himself

He saw her pass outside the window, pausing to wave shyly through the glass at him. There was a flash of Sarah stood in that tunnel again, screaming and drenched, like a drowning rat. Loud and terrified and torturous; it was the same image that had troubled him for the last few evenings.

Swallowing he pushed all thoughts and memories aside; they could come haunt him later, this was far too important to get distracted from. He had to focus.

"Sarah." Rising he waited until she sat down before pulling his seat in again. "How've you been?"

"Good, yeah. I just…" a stray lock of hair was looped behind her ear. "I needed some time. I hope that alright."

He shook his head. "That's absolutely fine."

You could have asked any person sat in the room with them that night, you could even ask their waiter and not one would have noticed anything untoward about the two health professionals. Nothing in their manner or their words or their demeanour suggested anything other than gentile conversation and mild flirtation between them. You could even have asked Sarah and she wouldn't recall anything out of sorts. In fact, if you _were_ to ask Sarah she would look at you in confusion and ask what on earth you were referring to.

No, it was only John who could hear the continuous strain on his voice as he talked. Everything he said, each word and every intonation was heavy with the Mesmer as they shared and joked and laughed together. While Sarah ordered herself another glass of wine, John thought upon the aching head he could already feel developing and declined the waiter's offer. He was going to have enough of a hangover after this without alcohol getting involved.

"You know." Sarah mused as she dreamily picked at the remains of her meal, which still rested on her plate. "You have the most…_incredible_ eyes." He watched as she stole another haphazard glance at him, once again connecting directly with John's piercing gaze which seemed fixed upon her. "I don't know why but…I've never really noticed before." It wasn't entirely by accident.

'_If he held a direct line of sight with the person he was talking to, they felt a greater compulsion to do as they were told and with less hesitation._'

There was power in his gaze and he couldn't waste it on his dinner or their surroundings too much. Sarah glanced up again and their eyes connected once more. Her pupils were blown and she looked somewhat distant but those blue orbs kept finding their way back to his.

"_Yours aren't too bad either_." The compliment tasted bitter on his tongue as he heard the Mesmer that still laced his words. Even so she giggled and slowly blinked once or twice.

John asked for the bill and pulled out his wallet.

"Are you okay?" Sarah's voice had began to follow her eyes into a somewhat dreamy state over the last half an hour but she still seemed perfectly aware of what was going on and hadn't failed to notice John's discomfort.

"Fine." He gave up on the Mesmer, feeling his stomach turn terribly and his muscles ache from the prolonged use.

Never before had he kept it up this long, hell most of the time when he'd used it, it had been short bursts. Most of the times he'd used it for extended periods it had been entirely accidental and nowhere near as long as the last two hours. This was going to be hell to get over but he only needed to keep face for another ten minutes; long enough to pay for the meal and see her safely home.

Upon his return to Baker Street, less than half an hour after seeing Sarah back into her flat with the false promise of another date, John strained to pull himself up the stairs and into the bathroom before his stomach gave up in its protestations and decided it needed to empty itself of near everything he'd consumed that evening. He did manage it though, not bothering to stop himself cradling the bowl as though he was some alcohol-crazed teenager while he struggled to draw each breath in as his stomach tried to empty itself again.

It was there, half-crouched, half-lying on the tiled floor his head leaning against the remarkably chilled wall, while his stomach continued to do flips, that it hit John what he'd done.

Using the Mesmer wasn't what concerned him, not this time. No, this time it was what he'd done with it. What he'd spent his whole evening telling Sarah to do with his tone and his eyes and what he'd effectively taken from himself.

The words that had been running through his mind for the last few hours passed across them again and his stomach clenched, emptying more of his dinner into the toilet before he collapsed back against the wall in exhaustion.

_Forget what happened._

_Be happy._

_Don't ask me out again._

* * *

><p>Sherlock watched John twitch and shift in his sleep, as he had done for the last hour, all the while reconsidering every theory he had thus far dismissed about his friend. He knew there was something about John Watson but what it was hadn't occurred to him yet.<p>

The doctor had returned from his date earlier than Sherlock had been expecting but he'd put his miscalculation down to his lack of understanding of the whole dating thing. After ten minutes with no reprimand for his obvious lack of movement since John had left, Sherlock had gone in search of his flatmate only to find him near passed out next to the toilet.

From John's increasing movement, Sherlock knew John was most likely close to waking and as such he retreated into the kitchen and made a cup of tea, milk no sugar. Returning to the sitting room, he left it on the small table beside the sofa he'd laid John out on again; it was easier to observe him there and infinitely more comfortable then John's previous position on the bathroom floor.

John let out a few disgruntled moans as he shifted again his eyelids flickering as he turned to face into the room.

"John." John's eyes began blinking furiously in an attempt to fight sleep but couldn't seem to hold themselves open. "John!"

Tired blue eyes slowly drew wide and stared up at Sherlock, a glaze of confusion sitting comfortably over them. Sherlock met his gaze before allowing his own eyes to flick to the mug only inches in front of John's face. Naturally the doctor's eyes followed the clear signal and John frowned as he saw the steaming mug that sat before him.

"…What's that?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I'd have expected you'd be able to identify a cup of tea."

The detective watched with careful eyes as John shifted before reaching out with a single hand and lifting the mug to his nose. He sniffed it, confusion clearly still weighing heavy on his mind.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing." It was true. All it was in the cup was tea, the brand that John had bought from the store, nothing more, nothing less. Although given the nature of some of Sherlock's less agreeable experiments John's suspicion wasn't entirely unfounded.

"Then why…?"

"It was my understanding that if someone appears upset an acceptable motion from those wishing to make them feel better is to prepare them a cup of tea." Sherlock strode over to his chair before lowering himself, partially turning to take in the sight of John still laid out the sofa. "Was I wrong?"

There was a beat of silence. "Who says I'm upset?"

Sherlock literally had to restrain himself from launching into everything he had observed that pointed to something having gone wrong, something to do with his secret. It could have been food poisoning but Sherlock had, unbeknownst to John, followed him on his way to the restaurant, leaving before Sarah had arrived. The choice had been a rather good one actually, a decent menu, reasonably priced and well situated. There was less than a one percent chance of contracting food poisoning there but if it _was_ something wrong with the food, it was unlikely John would have been able to walk Sarah home and then return to Baker Street before it took major effect. No, John was a stickler for good health practices, as he should be.

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

"No." John didn't even pause before replying and raised the mug to his lips taking a tentative sip. Deeming it clearly palatable he allowed himself a heartier gulp before placing it back down and withdrawing his hand to dangle off the edge of the sofa. "Thank you."

John didn't smile, although the gratitude seemed sincere. The confusion appeared to have dissipated somewhat although a distinct air of melancholy and fatigue still hung over the good doctor as he stared off into the middle distance in the mug's general direction.

"This is that thing, isn't it?" Sherlock's blunt tone would normally have caused John to glare at him and silently reprimand him for his manner, but this time his flatmate continued to stare off into space, apparently ignoring him completely. "_Is_n't it?"

"What thing?"

"The thing about you. That thing that you won't tell me."

It was a direct confrontation, more blunt than some of his previous attempts to get John to talk on this subject. None of those attempts had worked obviously, causing John to either leave, change the subject or outright ignore Sherlock. It appeared this time would be just as fruitless but still Sherlock waited patiently.

Waiting did indeed pay off as, after five whole minutes with no reply, John finally spoke, quietly but it was more of a response than Sherlock had ever received before. "Yes. It is."

"It's hurt you again."

"Yes. It has."

His answers were clipped, gratuitously short, almost as though he could feel Sherlock's attempts to deduce what was happening to his flatmate. Of course, that was exactly what Sherlock was doing, but he was clearly missing some crucial piece of data as still he could draw no conclusions.

"Are you going to make a habit of it?"

John shrugged, or as close to a shrug as he could manage while laid out on his side and fighting off sleep and Sherlock realised this line of enquiry was going to get him nowhere quickly.

The silence began to stretch out and Sherlock straightened out his shirt before looking up at John again. "Will you tell me today?"

John seemed to consider his answer before replying curtly. "No."

"Soon though." It wasn't a question but John gently shook his head.

"I don't know."

"Since I don't understand the nature of this…peculiarity of yours I can only assume it's going to continue happening." It worried him seeing John like this and although it was true that he was curious to figure out this strange thing about his flatmate, it was unnerving the amount of time he seemed to spend recovering from an attack. "You'll have to tell me eventually. If, not to satiate my curiosity than at least so I can understand why I keep having to support you to our sofa."

Sherlock's gaze had fallen to his hands as he clasped them together in his lap but when he received no response he looked up and saw John's eyes had slipped closed again.

"John."

"I'm tired, Sherlock." He watched as John turned his back to the room and burrowed slightly into the cushions. "We can talk about this later."

Glancing at his watch, Sherlock saw it was still the early hours and it was perfectly logical for John to wish to sleep, particularly given the presumably changeable nature of his health. Taking a deep breath, he decided to leave the subject for now and stood, crossing the room to the kitchen. Sherlock turned just before exiting and crossed his arms as he leant against the wall.

"You're going to have to tell me sooner or later, John."

The reply was tired and resigned. "I know."


End file.
